


Desperate’s my favorite look on you

by jouissant



Category: Actor RPF, Star Trek RPF
Genre: D/s elements, Established Relationship, M/M, Omorashi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-22 02:52:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1573427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jouissant/pseuds/jouissant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris has some urgent business to attend to, and Zach is not helping at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Desperate’s my favorite look on you

“And cut! Okay, nice job, guys. You mind running through it again, though? I have a feeling if we have Camera A kinda dolly in from that angle this time, you’re really going to feel Kirk’s anxiety over this whole Spock thing a lot more viscerally, you know? I wanna compare the shots. You up for it? We can break if you need to.” 

Chris glances at Karl and shakes his head. How JJ has this much energy 12 hours into today is completely beyond him. Karl waits until JJ’s back is turned and lifts his index finger to his temple in the universal symbol for utterly fucked in the head, which JJ clearly is. Karl shrugs at Chris. 

“Sure, let’s go for it,” Chris says. 

And sure, he’s bone tired, but he’s a professional and this is part of the deal, so he’ll suck it up. Any other time he’d suck it up _avec plaisir_ , except for right now Chris really has to pee. He’s had to pee for what feels like hours, long enough to go from crotch-grabbingly uncomfortable to numb and back around to uncomfortable again, and he’d have taken care of this problem long ago were it not for the fact that he’s wearing what amounts to a latex bodysuit. Removing it, while not impossible to do alone, is best accomplished with the assistance of a team of wardrobe specialists and a metric fuckton of baby powder. Apparently the wetsuits are very special and very expensive--when they broke for lunch, one of the wardrobe lackeys charged with policing Chris in the suit just glared at him disapprovingly until he gave up and got one of the assistants to hand-feed him an energy bar. 

But nobody can help him with this now; it’s just put up and shut up until they wrap for the night. He wishes he were actually under water; he could go in the damn thing then. Mercifully, though, JJ to gets what he wants on the next take, although there’s no guarantee that he won’t go home and review all the dailies and decide he wants to come at it from a completely different angle tomorrow. 

As soon as they’re done, Chris is out of there. “Later,” he calls over his shoulder to Karl. He’s practically cantering across the lot to his trailer, which just jostles his overfull bladder more. He doesn’t want to slow down, though, because Jesus fuck he needs to fucking go and he’s legitimately concerned for the integrity of the wetsuit at this point. 

He pounds up the steps to his trailer, yanking at the hidden back zipper practically before the door’s closed. He locks the door behind him almost as an afterthought and spins around, his arms contorted at his back and scrabbling at the infuriatingly smooth material, and-- _oh holy fuck,_ there’s someone here. His brain registers the fact that it’s Zach mere milliseconds before Chris both shrieks like a banshee and pisses himself for good measure. Zach waves nonchalantly. Chris clutches his chest with what he feels is an appropriate degree of drama.

“Christ, you scared me. What are you _doing_ here?” 

“Can’t I hang out and ogle you in latex from afar if I want to?” 

“You didn’t even have to be on set this afternoon; why are you here stalking me and loitering in my trailer when you could be home...I don’t know, doing something productive?” Chris squirms in the suit. “Help me out of this thing, would you? I have to piss like a racehorse.” 

“Somebody’s cranky.” Zach’s perched on the arm of Chris’s couch, drinking one of Chris’s beers, and now he slides back down to sitting and pats the cushion next to him. “And no, it’s not coming off quite yet. When you’ve been prancing around in it all day and I couldn’t even get a good look? No way, dude. Get over here.” 

Chris sighs. “You don’t it get it, I _really have to go._ ” He comes around the side of the couch anyway and does a little turn for Zach. “Happy?” 

Zach doesn’t answer; he just slides his hands up to cup Chris’s ass through the suit. “Mmm,” he hums to himself, kneading with both hands. “Yeah, I can see why they’re so worried about the blocking for this thing. You’re going to bump us up to an R rating with an ass like this.” 

“I didn’t ask to wear a fucking wetsuit,” Chris says, flexing his cheeks as he does. He feels like he needs every single muscle south of his bellybutton at full attention, or things are going to go to hell really fast. He shifts from foot to foot. 

“No, this was an unexpected blessing,” Zach says. He leans in and presses a kiss to Chris’s lower back. Then--

“Ow, what the fuck!” Because Zach’s fucking biting him, and if this thing can’t handle the threat of christening with a little accidental mayo or spaghetti sauce, spit and teeth are probably right out. “You can’t mess it up; they’ve already got, like, guards posted and they glare at me if I even look at the craft table.” 

“Well, if your food didn’t have such difficulty making it to your mouth, you wouldn’t have this problem.” 

Zach runs his hands up Chris’s sides and jerks him backwards. The motion catches Chris off balance and he falls back into Zach’s lap, groaning as he lands.

“Zach, come on, let me up, I’ve gotta go to the bathroom.” 

He tries to struggle free, which in retrospect is probably his first mistake. The couch is too low for him to get up from easily and he just ends up grinding himself ineffectually back and forth on Zach’s crotch. Zach catches Chris around the waist and pulls him in tighter, thrusting up against Chris’s ass and running a hand up the inside of Chris’s thigh to palm his dick through the suit. The pressure makes Chris gasp. 

“Really not the time,” he says through gritted teeth. 

“Oh, come on,” Zach says teasingly. “I bet you can hold it just a little longer. Besides, we’ve got to get you out of this thing anyway, right?” He sweeps his hand up Chris’s back to the zipper at the back of his neck. There’s a button at the wetsuit’s collar, and Zach hooks a finger just beside it, pulling back against Chris’s throat just for a second, just long enough to make Chris want to suck in a deep breath. Then he lets go, unbuttoning the collar and pulling the zipper down in what feels like millimeter-long increments. 

“Hurry up,” Chris says. “What the hell, why are you taking so long?” 

Zach doesn’t say anything. He abandons the zipper and drops his hands again, finding the line of Chris’s dick and stroking it through the suit. Chris shudders--he’s been stuffed in this thing all day and it feels like a sausage casing. He’s had to actively try not to think about the way it feels, hugging him all over. But now Zach’s hand is gliding over him and there’s no way to ignore it. Zach squeezes him and Chris moans, spreading his legs wider in spite of himself. 

“It’s a custom fit,” Zach says. “And I have to say, they did an amazing job. This leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination, Christopher.” 

He digs his fingers into Chris’s hip painfully, rocking Chris back and forth. The suit’s material is thin, and Chris can feel everything through it: the folds of Zach’s jeans, the unmistakeable bulge beneath them. 

Zach lifts Chris up a little and runs his thumb along the crack of Chris’s ass, pushing against the flexible material like he’s trying to punch through. It’s just enough to give the suggestion of stimulation, and it’s torturous, because while the suit might be stretchy it’s not that stretchy. He leans forward, pushing his dick into Zach’s cupped hand. The contact feels good, but _fuck_ , he’s got to go; he feels like his bladder is so full it’s pressing up against everything. He makes a frustrated noise. 

“Zach--” 

“Okay, okay.” 

Zach returns to the zipper, splitting the suit open all the way down to Chris’s tailbone. He whimpers a little at the release of pressure, and Zach runs his finger the length of Chris’s spine where the zipper’s bitten into the flesh of his back. 

“Mmm, I bet you’ve got marks like these all over,” Zach says. “Let’s see, shall we?” He lifts up on Chris’s hips encouragingly, trying to tug the suit over his ass. 

“Hold on a second.” Chris yanks the edge of the right sleeve over his wrist. His arms are covered in damp baby powder, which is a little gross but which means he can get out of first one sleeve and then the other with only a minimum of contortion. Still, Chris feels like he’s working out at the gym with one of those resistance bands. He’s exhausted, too, which doesn’t help, the muscles of his arms trembling as he tries to yank the thing down his torso. He looks behind him to see Zach watching with a far too pleased expression on his face. 

“Oh, shut up,” Chris grumbles. “I didn’t make fun of you when you had to wear that space beekeeper suit for the volcano scene.” 

“Hey, I am not saying a damn thing,” Zach says, his voice full of laughter, and Chris really does hate him a whole hell of a lot. 

Finally, he gets the suit down around his waist. He shifts forward so Zach can get it the rest of the way down, and he does--only instead of getting the fuck out of the way so Chris can strip off completely he grabs Chris around the waist again. Chris hears a wet slurp and then Zach’s reaching down into the suit, running a slick thumb between Chris’s cheeks and over his hole.

Chris moans. “What are you _doing?_ ” 

“Nothing. Just relax.” Zach lowers his arm so it’s draped across Chris’s lower belly, pushing right into the dull ache centered there. 

“ _Ah_ , Jesus Christ, you’re doing that on purpose!” He shifts back reflexively, but when he does Zach’s thumb is right there. He grabs a handful of flesh with his first four fingers, and slips his thumb inside Chris. 

“Sorry,” Zach says, his voice low and dark. “Did you want to go somewhere?” He hugs Chris’s pelvis, and Chris can’t help but cry out. Zach lifts him--fuck, he’s strong as hell, he’s been working out like crazy for months--and jerks the suit further down with his free hand. Chris is effectively hobbled, legs still rubber-clad and the body of the suit wrapped around his upper thighs. Zach wraps his fingers around Chris’s dick, carefully lifting it free. 

“I should’ve known you wouldn’t wear anything under,” he mutters. “How could you; I mean, it’s so fucking tight. But come on, Chris, you must know how that looks.” 

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” says Chris through his teeth. Zach brings his hand up to Chris’s mouth and runs his palm over his lips like he’s offering a horse a treat, fingers lifted out of the way. _That’s right,_ Chris thinks. _Sometimes I bite._

“Spit,” Zach says. 

Chris shakes his head against Zach’s hand. “I have to fucking piss,” he says. “Let me up.” 

Zach grabs Chris’s face, fingertips digging into his cheeks. “You know what to say if you want to get up. Now spit.” He offers his palm again, and Chris spits.

“Good,” Zach says, sliding his thumb roughly in and out of Chris and taking hold of his dick again with a newly slick palm. “Yeah,” Zach says, “You know what you look like, come on. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t. Nobody on that set can take their eyes off you, I don’t care who they are.” 

“You jealous?” 

Zach doesn’t say anything, just starts to fuck Chris with his thumb, grabbing at his ass as he does so. He shoves it in as far as it will go and leaves it, plugging Chris up neatly. Chris can’t help shuddering. Zach laughs again, rubbing at Chris’s hip with a split-second’s gentleness. 

“Why would I be jealous?” he says. “Look at you. You could be anywhere. But you’re not, are you? You’re sitting in my lap with my thumb in your ass.” 

Zach moves his wrist slowly, squeezing lightly at the shaft of Chris’s dick. It feels good, but the sensation seems to ripple through him straight to his bladder, morphing into a stab of discomfort as it does so. Chris wriggles like he can get away from it, but Zach’s thumb is there, and all he accomplishes is letting him in even deeper. 

_“Zach,”_ he whines. “I really need--” 

Zach thumbs at the head of Chris’s dick, sliding his hand down the shaft to Chris’s body and back up, slowly and torturously. He digs the heel of his hand into Chris’s belly on the downstroke. Chris gives up his attempt at coherent speech. He moans and tries to move his legs, spread them wider, anything to distract himself or alleviate his discomfort. Zach jerks him like he knows what Chris is trying to do, like he’s playing both sides, soother and torturer. He’s mouthing along the line of Chris’s shoulder blade, tongue warm over the raw and irritated ghost of one of the suit’s seams. He swivels his wrist, twisting this thumb in Chris and groping his ass, and there’s so much sensation Chris doesn’t know what to do with himself. 

There’s no way Chris can come like this; Zach much know it, but he doesn’t much seem to care, nor does he seem particularly concerned with getting off himself. He’s rocking Chris back and forth, and he’s hard for sure; Chris can feel him through his jeans. He tries to swivel around and reach for Zach’s fly, but Zach shrugs away, chuckling quietly. 

Frustrated, Chris tries to struggle free, but his position and the rubbery suit around his thighs make his effort futile. When he realizes what Chris is doing, Zach’s laughter dies, replaced by an irritated sigh. He slides carefully out of Chris and wraps his now free arm tightly around his hips, pulling him back down again. He squeezes Chris’s dick just a shade too hard, and Chris cries out. Then Zach goes back to jacking him, spitting in his own hand like he doesn’t trust Chris with the responsibility anymore. Chris has given up asking to get up, and lets twinned pleasure and discomfort overwhelm him. Zach gives good hand jobs, and he knows what Chris likes, which is really the hell of it. Because just as Chris’s brain is screaming at him to keep it together, keep it _in_ , Zach’s touch is driving him closer and closer to losing control entirely. 

“Zach,” Chris says. “Please.” He tries to keep his voice level, tries not to get whiny the way he knows he does during sex, the way he knows Zach likes it. 

Zach ignores him, choosing instead to bite gently at Chris’s neck and kiss over the toothmarks Chris imagines he’s leaving, up to the corner of his jaw and back down to his clavicle. He reaches lower between Chris’s legs to play with his balls, then strokes behind them. He times the movement to the steady, inexorable up-and-down of his other hand on Chris’s dick. 

Chris feels like he’s going to explode, alarms set thirty-some years ago now going off in his brain. “Zach,” he repeats. “Zach.” But Zach keeps ignoring him and keeps touching Chris as if he’s trying to make him come. Chris drops his hand between his own legs to grab at himself like he’s a little kid. Zach just keeps going, though, swatting Chris’s hand away. 

It would feel so good, Chris thinks, to just let go. He’s clenching his stomach muscles impossibly tightly, the burn just barely taking the edge off, but he’s been doing it for so long now that everything’s starting to ache, and fuck, if he could just let some of it out--

Zach bites into his shoulder then, and the shock of it shifts Chris’s laser focus just enough to allow a hot spurt of fluid to burst out over Zach’s hand. Zach gasps, and Chris feels a rush of shame. 

“Oh god,” he moans. “I’m sorry.” 

Zach doesn’t say anything. He just shifts back on the couch and pulls Chris with him, so rather than sitting on his lap Chris is gathered up in Zach’s arms. He runs a hand soothingly up and down Chris’s back and jerks Chris faster, whispering in his ear. He’s telling him to come on and let go, and maybe Zach’s confused, because Chris isn’t going to come, not at all. Or--or maybe he is; he’s not sure he knows anymore, because Zach’s making him feel so good, and it’ll feel so good to just relax. He got a taste of it a second ago, and now the prospect of relief is floating tantalizingly just out of reach. 

_No, wait,_ Chris thinks, his rational mind attempting to break through one last time. Zach murmurs something Chris doesn’t quite make out, and then he flattens his hand against Chris’s stomach and _presses_ , and Chris...Chris just can’t hold on any longer. 

“Oh,” he sobs into Zach’s shirt. “Oh, no--”

He can’t watch himself do it; he buries his face in Zach’s shoulder. But it feels so good; it might as well be an orgasm for how good it feels, and once he starts he knows with helpless certainty that he’s not going to stop until he’s empty. He has the vague thought that he could get up now and finish in the bathroom, but Zach is holding him close and whispering again, _no, come on baby, you need this, you need to let go for me._

Piss pours out of him for what feels like forever. Eventually the flow slows, and Chris begins to feel like he’s coming down after the high of orgasm. The ebb of pleasure gives way to shame rushing back full force, Chris giving himself over to a full-body blush. 

Zach’s staring at him, mouth hanging open and eyes wide. 

“Oh my god,” Chris says. “Oh my god. I couldn’t hold it any longer. I’m so sorry, I just--” 

“Shut up,” Zach says, shaking his head. “Just--” He unbuttons his jeans and yanks down his fly, and he’s...he’s really fucking hard. He’s wet too, dark spots all over his shirt, and as he gets his dick out and starts to jerk himself Chris realizes that his hands are wet too; he’s jerking his dick with Chris’s piss all over his hands.

“Zach--” 

“Keep going,” Zach snaps. “You’ve been holding it for hours, I’m sure you’ve got some left in there.” 

“But--” 

“Fuck, come on,” Zach moans. 

Chris lets out another frustrated sob of breath. He does; he still has to go. He closes his eyes again, covers them with a hand and feels the blood beat in his face. He tries to pretend he’s somewhere--anywhere--else, but Zach’s so close, and Chris can hear him gasping for breath, hear the wet slap of his hand. He bears down and feels himself spurt again, then again. Then it’s just a trickle, but that doesn’t seem to matter to Zach, because when Chris opens his eyes again Zach’s staring at him with an intensity Chris has only seen a handful of other times, biting his lip and letting out little moans in time with every stroke of his hand. 

“Chris,” he breathes. “Oh, _oh_ \--” and then he’s shutting his eyes and coming with a strangled sound. 

“Not on the suit!” Chris squeaks, never mind the fact that he’s afraid to think about what else is on it by now. Zach seems to have redirected himself, but Chris scoots away anyway. He feels a little bad about it, so he reaches out along the back of the couch and squeezes Zach’s shoulder, rubbing circles with his thumb. Zach grabs for his hand and squeezes back, leaning into the touch as he strokes himself through the aftershocks. He pulls Chris’s hand to his cheek and starts to shake, which is disturbing until Chris realizes he’s laughing. “Oh my god,” he says, shaking his head. 

Chris wants to sink into the floor. “What--what in the fuck just happened?” he stammers.

Zach smirks at Chris. “I have no idea. But holy shit, this is depraved even for you, Pine.” 

Chris feels his face burning again. “Me?” he blurts, flustered. “You’re the one who wouldn’t let me up! I told you I had to go, I warned you like a thousand times. If anyone’s depraved around here--” 

He doesn’t get to finish that sentence, because Zach pulls him in closer and kisses him far, far too sweetly for what’s just occurred. “I couldn’t have asked for a better partner in depravity,” he says, and for all his embarrassment and discomfort, for all the filthy stew now cooling between them, Chris has to agree.

“Come here,” Zach says, and Chris lets himself be dragged back into Zach’s lap. Zach kisses him on the temple. “You were so hot, though,” he says quietly. “All squirmy. I couldn’t help myself. You know desperate’s my favorite look on you.”

Chris groans. “You’re going to kill me one of these days.” He looks down at his legs. “And fuck, wardrobe is going to kill me tomorrow if I don’t get out of this thing and get it back to normal.” 

“Relax,” Zach says. “It’ll be fine. Here, give me your legs.” 

They manage to get Chris out of the suit, clean themselves up, and assess the damage, which after a little spot-cleaning actually isn’t so bad. 

“I didn’t let you piss all over yourself,” Zach says. “I kind of directed your, uh, stream.” 

Chris eyes Zach’s sodden clothing, now balled up in a plastic grocery bag on the floor of the trailer. Zach’s wearing a spare set of Chris’s workout clothes, running shorts and a blue and yellow Cal t-shirt. It’s a good look on him, Chris thinks. “Yeah, you really took one for the team there, buddy. Very selfless. Not like you got off on it or anything.” 

Now it’s Zach’s turn to flush. “Whatever,” he says. “Can we get out of here now so I can shower in a real shower?” 

“So demanding,” Chris says. “Yes, Mr. Quinto. Let us away to your manse, where I will draw you a bath.” 

Zach wrinkles his nose. “The city’s resurfacing my street and the construction revs up at daylight like right outside my bedroom window. Can we away to your manse instead?” 

Chris grins. “Anywhere you want,” he says. “But you made me pee on you, so you’re buying me food first.” 

“It has to have a drive through. I’m not eating in dressed like this.” 

“I’m not seeing how that’s my fault. But fine. We can go to that fancy burger place by my house; they have a drive through. And good milkshakes.” 

Zach rolls his eyes. “This was clearly a mistake,” he says. 

“Can I get in the bathtub too? You can give me a real hand job.” 

Zach glowers. “Oh, I can, can I? Thanks so much. Go get in your fucking car, Pine.” But he’s laughing, and the lot’s deserted, so on the walk to their cars he wraps his arm around Chris and slides a hand into the back pocket of his jeans, and Chris doesn’t think it was a mistake at all.


End file.
